Finding Him(self)
by Rasiaa
Summary: Mordred has to undergo at least five years of therapy to get his testosterone shots. Knowing there isn't any other way, he makes his appointments with Dr. Morgana Pendragon, a woman fresh out of school with nothing to lose and everything to gain. But he doesn't really care about her business, not after he meets another patient at the hospital - Merlin.


_The first sentence was the prompt here/ this is what I came up with._  
 _I ought to be working on Gone. Really. But this bit me this evening and said, "Haha, nope. No way."_  
 _Seeing no other choice, I opened a word document and wrote it down._  
 _Is this worth continuing?_

* * *

The stain on the ceiling had a very distinct shape.

Mordred considers it as he waits, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, biting the inside of his lip, eyes flicking around until they eventually landed back on the stain.

"…Mordred?"

His eyes snap to the side, eyeing the confused figure staring at his clipboard. Mordred stands, snagging his wallet from the table, and pockets it as he walks over. The man looks up. "You're Mordred?" he asks, and Mordred nods his agreement. "Right this way, then," the man says, holding open the door and letting Mordred pass through. "You'll be seeing Dr. Morgana Pendragon today, Ms. le Fay. Ah, excuse me," the man fumbles, "Sir."

"Thank you," he mutters, keeping pace with the short man easily as they wound through the hospital's hallways. Mordred couldn't keep his eyes on any one thing. They flickered from the low ceilings, to the cream walls and dark purple carpet, back to the walls where he found pictures of the various doctors and their teachers and patients. Fancy titles, awards, certificates- all framed around the hallway with another secretary's desk inside it and a few doors leading into patient rooms.

It is to one of these that Mordred is led, the short man knocking sharply on the door farthest from the entrance. "Come on in," a feminine voice calls, and the man turns the doorknob, letting the door fall open.

"Dr. Pendragon, this is Mordred le Fay," the man introduces. Mordred steps forward. "Excuse me," the man says, and Mordred looks at him with his eyebrows raised, only to have the man stutter a bit and then step out, the door swinging shut behind him. This leaves Mordred alone with the doctor.

"Hello, Mordred," she says warmly, walking across her office as he turns around. She holds out her hand and he takes it, shaking firmly. "Take a seat." She gestures to the couch on the side of the room. He glances over and nods, hesitantly walking over and perching on the edge. "Oh, I don't bite," she sighs. "Relax, sweetheart."

He doesn't.

Instead, he looks at her, taking in the waves in her dark hair, her green eyes framed with silver make up, the plain purple dress that she's wearing. She has flats on, not heels, and she's wearing nylon, which he hardly ever sees anymore. She sits in a chair next to a computer, which is on a clean desk with a single notebook, pen, and a photo of the doctor with some people he assumes are either friends or family or both. The wall behind the desk has a picture of a flower in a vase, which he stares at for a second too long, because she glances at it, too, and says, "Horrid, isn't it? I just started working here and that painting came with the office."

He jumps, and she's looking at him again. He doesn't answer.

Her eyes are kind as she looks at him. She doesn't reach for the notebook, nor for the computer to pull up his file. Instead, she says, "I have one half-brother, a half-sister, and a sister-in-law, my brother's wife. My mother died in childbirth and my father took me in despite the fact that I'm the proof he cheated on his wife. She left him, and he went mad with grief, leading me to run away when I was sixteen. Tell me something about you, and I'll tell you more about me."

He stares at her blankly, heart in his throat. He taps his hand on his knee and she waits patiently. "I, um," he says, and shakes his head. His eyes flicker away from hers.

"Tell me something," Morgana repeats. "Anything, it doesn't matter what."

He says nothing, biting his lip again, and she sighs, leaning forward. He looks over at her face before his eyes lower to the hem of her dress. "Mordred," she says. He looks up. "What's your favorite color?"

Shocked, he stutters, "M- my favorite…?"

"Color, yes," she agrees, nodding. "Mine is green."

"Ah. Sky blue?" he offers, and she nods decisively, spinning in her chair and opening a drawer in her desk. She rummages around for a second before she pulls out a thin box.

"This is wax," she says. "I want you to have one." She sets the box on the table between them and pulls the lid off to reveal three stacks of colored wax. He stares at it, terribly confused. She dumps the contents of the box onto the table and moves them around to reveal all the colors. Picking up the blue one, she hands it to him. "It's malleable," she says. "Use it as a stress reliever- play with it, mold it, tear it, whatever… just don't eat it and we'll be fine."

He snorts lightly and folds the corner of the wax bar absently, watching her instead of his hands as she kicks the table out of the way and drags her chair back over, this time closer. "Now," she says. "I think I told you I'd tell you more about myself. Do you have any questions?"

"Why silver?" he asks. "It doesn't match the dress."

"It matches my eyes," Morgana replies after a minute of confusion. "You mean my eye shadow, correct?"

"Yes," he agrees, and she nods.

"Yeah, then, it matches my eyes. That's why I chose silver. Now, something about you?"

He averts his eyes again and she stays silent, waiting. "I'm not a woman," he says, and she nods.

"I know," she responds. "That's why you're here."

"Have you ever worked with a trans person before?" he asks, and she shakes her head.

"Not officially, no," she says, "But you're not the first person to tell me they don't feel like they're their assigned gender. For them it was a phase, it barely lasted a week, and it usually was a symptom of anxiety. But you have felt this way for years. It's my job to see if you're simply anxious, depressed, or actually transsexual."

"Yes," he agrees, not knowing what else to say.

She looks at him and sighs, "My first boyfriend tried to kill me."

He looks up sharply and she points to a nick on her throat, pale and barely visible. "I screamed and my brother killed him, and we dealt with a lawsuit for nearly two years before the charges were dropped."

"Why were they dropped? Why did he try to kill you?" he asks, eyes wide, and she tuts at him, shaking her finger.

"Something about you, Mordred, and then I'll answer your question. And then another thing about you, and I'll answer your second one."

He huffs in irritation, leaning back on the couch and cross his leg over his knee. He eyes her, her patient expression, and then looks at the clock. They've barely been in here for twenty minutes, and he has a two hour biweekly appointment with this woman for the next five years. If this is how the first one is going, he wants to leave.

But…

He also really wants his shots. Huffing once again in annoyance, he looks back to her and says, "I'm gay."

"So you like men?" she checks, and he rolls his eyes.

"I believe that's what "gay" means, yes."

"With transgender people, I'm never sure," she confesses. Biting the inside of his mouth some more, he waits, still absently folding the wax bar in between his fingers. He watches the clock.

"The charges were dropped because the only prosecutor found evidence in my ex's apartment that he wanted so badly to kill me in the form of letters to her."

Nodding, he takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, watching his fingers, now with blue wax under the nails, tear the wax in half. He molds the pieces back together and grinds his teeth, pressing his tongue against the bottom back ones, feeling the space between them and the way they overlap. "I like American country music," he offers, and she nods.

"Good, Mordred," she praises lightly. "He tried to kill me because my eyes reminded him of his ex wife."

He's the one nodding now, and they're quiet for a long time. "Mordred?" she checks, and he hums. "Do you have any siblings?" He shakes his head in the negative. "And your parents?"

"I never knew my mother; my father lives two towns over," he reveals shortly.

"Do you have pets?"

"Just a cat named Kara," he says with a shrug. "She's a calico."

He picks the wax out from under his nails as she asks, "How often do you sleep?"

He stops.

Looking up, he meets her eyes warily, not answering that question.

After another full minute ticks by on the clock, she sighs. "Okay. How about eating? How often do you eat?"

"Twice a day," he says.

"Two full meals or snacks?" she asks, her voice not wavering from its pleasant tone. She makes it sound like she doesn't mind whatever answer he gives her.

"Depends on the day, I guess," he says.

She nods, and he goes back to playing with the wax. The phone rings. She ignores it, but he stares at it until she sighs and picks it up, "I'm with a patient," she says shortly before the other person could speak, and puts the phone back down on its holder. "Sorry, Mordred," she says. "Now. Do you have a boyfriend?"

He shakes his head no.

"How many close friends?"

"Zero," he answers, the sharp sting that the number used to have having long since faded away.

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a librarian at the high school up the street."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"No."

"How come?"

"I dislike teenagers. They're loud."

"Mordred?"

"Hm?" he answers, tilting his head up to stare at her. She leans forward, elbows on her knees.

"How do you like your coworkers?"

He shrugs, disinterested. "They're okay. They're loud, too, though."

"Would you like to know what I think of you so far?" she asks, and he eyes her nervously from under his eyelashes, shocked by the question.

"What?"

"I think, that before your next appointment, you need to go get a drink- coffee, tea, whatever, just not alcohol, and sit in a park somewhere."

He snorts, looking back down. "I do that every morning," he says. "I'm a druid."

He can practically feel her surprise. Rolling his eyes, he waits, and she recovers. "That's a new one," she says lightly. He doesn't feel the need to respond to this.

More silence. "Mordred?"

"Yes?"

"I can't make this work if you don't talk to me. Tell me anything- your dreams, your passions, desires. I want to know what you think about, if there's anything you want or need more than anything."

"I want my testosterone shots," he says, "But I'm not allowed to have those until I've undergone a certain amount of therapy, so here I am."

She sighs. "I know," she says, sympathetic. "I know you want those. But is there anything else?"

"Not really, no. I can't think of anything else when everything I am feels wrong."

He looks at the clock. She looks, too, and her lips thin. "That's it for today," she says. "I'll see you on Thursday, two pm."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please," she says as they both stand. "Call me Morgana."

He nods, and she smiles, walking with him to the door. When he tugs it open, she says, "For the next appointment, I want to see a list of at least five things you want. They could be material things, or they could be seemingly impossible, but I want at least five things."

"Okay," he agrees, and steps out, handing her the wax. She pulls a face and pushes it back to him.

"Keep that," she says. "It's yours. Keep it with you, and when you're feeling stressed, take it out. It doesn't stick to things or smell at all, so you can have it on you at all times and people don't have to know."

"Thank you," he says, and resumes pulling at the corners, "I'll see you Thursday."

"Yes."

He nods and pivots on his heel, walking to the door. His eyes flicker to the young girl that heads into Morgana's office after he leaves, wearing a bright pink dress and blue shoes with one of her pigtails higher than the other. He resists the urge to pull them out of her hair and fix them, and instead turns his eyes to the fish tank. He barely looks at that when he looks to the open door that hadn't been open before, and sees a pale pink office with an older woman talking with a younger gentleman, a teenager he recognizes from his high school standing between them. He looks away hurriedly.

And runs right into someone.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," the man stutters, gripping Mordred's arms for balance. "I didn't see you there."

"No harm done," Mordred says, looking at the man, and oh. Oh, wow.

The prettiest pale blue eyes look at him curiously, framed by long lashes and pale skin. The man has high cheekbones and dark, straight hair, a contrast to Mordred's own curls. The man is grinning at him. "I'm Merlin," he introduces in a soft voice, and Mordred flushes, glancing away momentarily before he looks up into the stranger's eyes again.

"Mordred," he says, and Merlin's grin widens.

"Well, Mordred," Merlin says, "Care to get coffee later? I'm free all day tomorrow, or my appointment ends in an hour?"

Mordred's heart jumps. "I'd like that. Do you want me to wait here?"

Merlin laughs. "Sure, cutie. I'll see you in an hour."

He nods, and feels cold when Merlin releases him, heading into one of the side rooms.

He smiles wildly, looking at the floor. A hand touches his arm. He jumps, and looks up to meet Morgana's eyes. "Merlin is an old friend of mine," she says. "I think you'll like him."

"I- wh- what? I- I don't…"

She nods encouragingly. "Good luck, Mordred."

He looks away from her and she walks away. His eyes follow her, but he's thinking about Merlin, about those pretty blue eyes.


End file.
